


last man standing

by alchemystique



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Everyone is Dead, F/F, F/M, Gen, didn't you read the title, implied character death galore, not in a sad way though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 08:21:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15577734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alchemystique/pseuds/alchemystique
Summary: He sees ghosts, sometimes. It’s not a new development, so he knows it’s all in his head, but he sees them, all the same.





	last man standing

He sees ghosts, sometimes. It’s not a new development, so he knows it’s all in his head, but he sees them, all the same. 

 

On the rare occasions he’s outside the walls by himself he’ll run into Aaron - just a wisp of him, his face fading to memory, his words nearly lost to the sounds of the woods. It’s strange, that of all the faces Daryl has lost Aaron’s is one of the first to go. Aaron had lasted longer than a lot of people, had survived well past most everyone else, but Daryl can’t remember much more about him than the set of his wry grin and the curl of his hair.  He’ll catch a whiff of the shampoo Aaron used to use, something with a bite of tea tree oil, cool and subtle, and he’ll watch for danger, knows it’s there sure as anything. Aaron’s always right, and it’s kept him out of more scrapes than Daryl is willing to give a dead man credit for.

 

When their fearless second in command shoots off his mouth he’ll get Rick in his ear - see him outta the corner of his eye, hip cocked, fingers curled around the holster of his pistol, sarcasm in his voice, and Daryl will keep an eye on him, watching to make sure Rick don’t do nothin’ extra stupid, knows it wouldn’t be  _ Rick  _ doin’ the stupid shit, if it came down to it.

 

At night, when the world is quiet and Daryl’s by himself, Carol will come to him, a grin on her face, nudging at his shoulder with the breeze and he’ll sway exaggeratedly away from the push of it - she’ll call him sweetheart or honey bear, and he’ll grimace and she’ll laugh the quiet twitter of a ‘coon drifting through the street, her face in stark detail against the moonlight. He doesn’t mind those nights, so much, sitting in comfortable silence with his long lost friend. Some nights he’ll whisper back to her, and she’ll give him a look - “Everyone here already thinks you’re the town crazy, pookie, no need to prove them right.” - and he’ll ignore her because he wants her to know about his day, his week, the whole damn year and all the things that have happened since she left him. There’s a good chance she’s still alive and kicking, somewhere. The falling out they’d had had never sat well with him, and he’d fought her when she told him she was leaving. He can still remember her face, the resigned look she’d given him, the hand she’d run through her hair, shorn shorter than he was used to seeing on her. The way she’d smiled at him but it hadn’t reached her eyes. The way her hug had felt looser than usual, the way he’d known he’d lost something before she even left.

 

When the community looks to him for advice, all those young faces staring at him like he knows somethin’ about somethin’, it’s Maggie who sidles up beside him, her stance wide and her mouth set in a thin line, like she’s ready to give a hell of a speech. Only the words come outta  _ his  _ throat, calm and steady, just like Maggie’d always been, phrases cool and measured and nothing like Daryl would’a spouted a decade ago. Sometimes, when he’s using Maggie’s words, he’ll catch Rick in the crowd watching him, and he feels like he should apologize to his brother in arms, but Rick seems happy about it, happy that it’s not Rick he drags up from memory for leadership - maybe a little amused, too, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile. Those are the times Daryl wonders if Rick had ever even wanted to lead, the times he thinks maybe Rick would have made it if everyone hadn’t looked to him to tell them what the hell to do when the world turned on it’s head and no one knew how it worked anymore.

 

In the end they’d all agreed Maggie was better at this diplomacy shit than the rest of them. 

 

Things go sideways, as they do, and  it’s Glenn he sees, Glenn who snarks beside Daryl while shit hits the fan, Glenn who points out routes he would’a missed, running like a bat outta hell through uncharted space, and Glenn who can’t fuckin’ shut up even when Daryl asks nice. Gotten outta more’n a few scrapes courtesy of Glenn running his mouth, and maybe it’s all in his own goddamn head but every time he sees the man Daryl sloughs off some of his own guilt. “I did not die for you to be murdered by an overly ambitious low hanging branch, Dixon,” Glenn says, and Daryl’s too busy ducking to flip him the bird but Glenn’s in his head anyway, knows the sentiment is there. “Or rotting tree stubs, dumbass,” and Daryl hops that too, already out of reach of whatever’s been chasing him through the woods.

 

It’s usually not walkers, these days - they’re few and far between, and the community seems convinced some sort of cure has been created, dropped from the heavens by who the hell knows what. 

 

Daryl wants to tell them there’s just not enough people alive in this world to have herds anymore, but Glenn stops him from doing that, too, a hand on his shoulder and a shake to his head. Daryl keeps his mouth shut and Glenn pretends to be surprised, sunlight glancing off his jet black curtain of hair, a mock of open mouthed confusion on his face. 

 

He finds Carl in the faces of the group when he teaches them how to make bows, when he shows them how to set snares, when they find a stash of stale marshmallows and he makes fun of them all for not knowing what a fucking s’more is - not that they could make ‘em anyway, chocolate’s more precious than gold, nowadays. It’s Carl who convinces him to stay, those days when he wants to walk through the gates with his bow on his back and never return, Carl who gives him that stare of his and tells him these people need him for something - never tells him what, exactly, but Carl still manages to convince him, anyway. Never uses his sister for leverage, which Daryl appreciates, even though Daryl knows he’d have to be ripped limb from limb before he left Judy. 

 

Hershel doesn’t talk much, doesn’t show very often neither, but when he does Daryl feels the warmth of his hard stare, hears the hum of his easy, steady words, and he pays a little closer attention to the life all around him, takes note of the happy smile on Judy’s face, the way the sky looks after a storm passes through, the gentle hum of life all around him.

 

Merle shows up on occasion, though not as much as he used to. Different ages, different wear and tear on his face and soul - young and free of the lines that began to appear far too young, on days where the scars on Daryl’s back don’t pinch; older, gray and grizzled when it’s been a long day and Judy smiles and laughs about something silly and Daryl feels a million years old. He’s quiet, most of the time, standing off on the sidelines like he doesn’t know how to be a part of this life Daryl’s eked out, and Daryl gets it. He feel like a stranger sometimes, a man out of place and time. In the old world he’d never expected to get this old, figured he’d die young in some stupid accident because he was never brave enough to do anything but follow around his dumbass big brother. Merle’s not a part of this new world, where he’s some sort of elder in a community of people who barely remember road work and cell phones, internet and neon lights - the buzz of power lines running overhead. When he’s out in the woods, when he throws the bow over his shoulder, that’s when Merle talks, voice smooth as gravel, gives Daryl shit for the gray in his beard and the way his knee twinges in a storm. 

 

Then there are the days where he sees no one at all, and he’s left to his own thoughts. Dark thoughts, sometimes, hours where he contemplates all his losses, whole days where he wonders why he was the one who survived.

 

Last man standing, he thinks, and he hates Beth Greene for being right.

 

Judy’s fifteen, now, and barely remembers most the people she’s lost, so he carries them for her. Tells her stories about Lori, and about her brother and her father. Fathers. He makes most of the shit about Shane up, tells him Rick had a best friend who would have loved her as his own, omits the shit about him going straight up fucked in the head and tells her he would’a taught her to shoot true and throw a punch.

 

They left it to Daryl to raise her, and he can never be sure he’s doin’ a good job of it but she’s a good kid either way. He’s proud of her. Proud of the steel in her spine and the joy in her eyes, proud of the way she laughs and the way she stands up for herself. She’s stronger than he ever was, brave in ways he never was.

 

Gets her into trouble, it does, but all she’s gotta do is smile and tilt her head to get outta most of it. A real fuckin charmer, is what she is, and he guesses that’s the most she ever got from Shane Walsh.

 

They’re out a the harvest festival one night, the first time she asks about the angels on his shoulder.

 

“You talk to yourself sometimes,” she reveals, blonde hair falling over her eyes, and that’s one of those things she learned from him he wishes she hadn’t. She’s eyeing a girl across the square she hasn’t shut up about in weeks, and Daryl wonders who the hell he’s gonna have to wrangle up to talk to her about crushes and falling in love. “Who do you talk to?”

 

Daryl shrugs, fingers the leather strap that holds his knife to his belt. Her eyes are wide as she watches him, and she tosses her head to the side, shuffling her hair out of her face like she means business. He never learned how to do that. “People,” he tells her, purposely vague, and she makes a face, nose scrunched up like, unsatisfied by his non-answer. 

 

“People we used to know?”

 

We. She uses that word, uses it like she’d been a part of everything before, instead of the reason they did any of it. 

 

“Yeah.”

 

She’s quiet, for a while, her eyes drifting back to Taylor, with her long, silky brown hair glinting in the firelight, gaze darting to Judy every once in a while, her voice drifting across the square from her spot on the top stair of the gazebo as she sings some song he doesn’t know. 

 

It’s comical, sometimes, how much of Daryl Judy’s got, like he had some part in shaping her personality. Terrifying, too.

 

“You ever talk to Beth?”

 

Daryl pauses, his entire body stilling, and slowly turns his head to look at her. “Why?”

 

Judy shrugs, another tic of his she’s picked up, and her hair falls into her face again as she turns her eyes away from Taylor and her sweet voice. “Just wondering.”

 

She’s losing her accent. He’s been noticing it for months now, the way her words are sharper, fuller. Makes him sad, sometimes, but if that’s the price he’s gotta pay to have her safe, he’ll pay it over and over.

 

“She’d’a loved it here,” is what he says, and her eyes light up. Knows she’s gonna get a story outta him. Of all his stories, she likes the Beth ones best, and he can never say for sure why, only he thinks she likes the way he talks about Beth, maybe even likes the way she knows it makes him feel. Been long enough now it doesn’t hurt so much, but it still makes his hand drift to the scar he’d burned into his skin all those years ago. 

 

“What would she have liked so much?”

 

He feels the pull of the muscles in his face as he fights a smile, stares out around him, at the bustle of people all around them, the couples dancing ‘round the other side of the square, the kids running around, the torches lit in even rows along the line of tables heaped with food. “Life,” he says, without really meaning to. “There’s life here.

 

Judy seems to understand what he means, even if it’s not the full answer. She always knows, even when he can’t explain it well. Her eyes are back on Taylor, who has finished singing and is milling near the food, not eating anything, her focus on pretending she’s not watching Judith - the boy beside her talking a mile a minute, arms gesturing, and Daryl can tell she’s not hearing a word of it. Half of him is convinced now’s the time to pack up their shit and run, never to return, because sure as anything he’s gonna lose Judy’s focus the moment she realizes she’s got a crush, and not a rivalry. The other half wants to lock them in the shed behind his house and tell them no one’s leaving until they admit their undying love for one another.The second half is winning, most days. 

 

Beth’s doing, he’s sure.

The only fight he’d get is from Judy, convinced as she is that she’s annoyed by absolutely everything Taylor does, and not confused by these new feelings she’s got. Sometimes he thinks she’s spent too much time learning his ways.

 

“Do you think she’d be singing up there?” There’s a band now, mismatched and not terribly good, but no one really cares as long as they can carry a beat. 

 

Daryl nods. “Would’a put these assholes to shame.” The memory of her voice is old, but it’s strong, and the melody of her fingers rolling across the keys of a piano still chimes in his mind on his particularly ornery nights. 

 

“Wish I’d been old enough for her to teach me.” She’s got an eye on the guitar one of the guys is playing, and Daryl nudges her shoulder teasingly. 

 

“Bet Taylor’d be more’n happy to show you the ropes.”

 

Judy grimaces. “Taylor wouldn’t spend two seconds with me ‘fore she had somethin’ to say about my skills.” Her accent gets thicker when she’s feeling extra emotional, and he savors it, knows eventually it’ll go away.

 

Daryl bites his tongue, doesn’t mention the fact he doesn’t think they’d be left alone for five seconds before they were lip to lip. Wonders if he should just make the effort for her and go over there right now, tell Taylor to stop pussyfooting around and lay one on Judy. At least ask her for a fuckin’ dance, or something. 

 

It’s not the end of the world that they’re dancing around each other, he has to remind himself. They aren’t in constant danger of never seeing another day, of losing each other before one of them can admit something. There’s time, here.

 

“Guess we’re about to find out,” he mutters, when Taylor makes it easier on him and his patience, slinking towards them with a little grin Judy calls mocking but Daryl knows is terrified. 

 

Judy straightens, turns her gaze towards Daryl like she has no idea what he’s talking about, but she’s buzzing beneath her skin, anticipation warring with embarrassment. He’s got nothing to say that will ease her mind, had never had a chance to find out if the feelings bubbling up under his scarred skin could be reciprocated. Daryl stands, shoves at Judy’s shoulder. 

 

“Be nice,” he mutters, completely aware of the irony, and Judy shoots him a panicked look. 

 

“Stay,” she whispers, and Daryl shakes his head as Taylor gets within hearing distance. She greets him happily, her smile reaching her eyes, and Daryl nods at her, takes another step backwards and away. 

 

“Hey Judy,” she says, in a sugary voice he’s never heard her use on another soul, and he rolls his eyes at the pure teenage angst he knows is coming. 

 

“Taylor,” Judy mutters, arms crossed in front of her, tongue running over her teeth, looking for all the world like a fawn about to bolt at the first crack of branches underfoot. 

 

Taylor seems unfazed, her smile unfaltering, and Daryl tilts his head at Judy when she shoots him one last begging stare. He shrugs, both shoulders jumping up and down, gives her a ‘you’re on your own’ wave and turns away. 

 

He’s halfway down main street when he feels someone fall into step beside him, turns to see messy blonde hair bouncing along next him. “That was mean,” she tells him, and Daryl doesn’t look at the face shimmering next to him. Doesn’t need to, knows exactly what kind of look he’ll see. That same exasperation that’d greeted him in firelight across a kitchen table, had told him ‘Don’t i’unno’, had rolled over him and made him hopeful for the breath of a moment. 

 

“Not a nice man,” he mutters, and her quiet hum of laughter isn’t mean, even though it’s making fun.

 

He sees her more than the others. She’s there most days, quieter than the rest usually are, but she’s there, in his mind. Carved out a place beneath his ribcage long ago, burrowed in and never left. Nestled into his very bones, always present even when he can’t see her. He feels her like he would a phantom limb - feels the pain even though it’s dulled with time.

 

“I think it’s sweet, you encouraging young love.”

 

He grunts, digging into his pocket for the silver case he keeps his smokes in now. He gets a wry little grin outta the gesture, her mouth tilting up on one side, and he knows the words outta her mouth before she says them. In his head and all. 

 

“Such a distinguised gentleman you are.”

 

One of the council members had gifted him with the case, for something he can’t remember now, silver etched with vinework, more delicate than anything else he owns, and it stayed stocked with handrolled cigarettes most of the time. He imagines after tonight, Judy will have him smoking them more than he’s used to. He pulls one out, lights it with a flick, pulls in a deep lungful of smoke. “Y’ain’t lookin’ so young yourself, no more,” he tells her, and the figment of his imagination who’s grown older alongside him sticks her tongue out. 

 

“I said distinguished.”

 

“Y’meant _old_ ,” he tells her, eyeing the sliver of grey at her temple, the gnarled kink of curl there. 

 

“Yep,” she says, popping her ‘p’ with a grin. “You’re an old man.”

 

“Still do okay though.”

 

She hums, low in her throat, and they walk. _He_ walks, at least - her footsteps are far more silent than he ever had a chance to teach her. It’s like this most of the time, with Beth. She doesn’t fill up the silences with words, lets him mull on his thoughts. She’s in there with those thoughts anyway, doesn’t need to put in her two cents to let him know she’s around.

 

“Sing somethin’ for me?” he asks, and her smile fills him up, warms him in the cool breeze blowing through the air. Her voice drifts through the air as he makes his way back home, curls around him, bright and airy even as the night goes dark around him. 


End file.
